


The Idyll

by quickmanifyouloveme



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I probably shouldn't post this at midnight but oh well, Incest, This is a little gift to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickmanifyouloveme/pseuds/quickmanifyouloveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the one where they go to Paris. (AU wherein everything is happy and only some things hurt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Idyll

(this is the one where they go to Paris.)

Girl’s never killed nobody before. She’s seen you kill, squirreled away behind a convenient banister, thrown you salts and ammo before you could draw the breath to ask—scream, battle is never calm as _may I please have more bullets with which to shoot these bitches, merci mademoiselle_ —she’s washed blood off your clothes, she’s patched your divots and slices, which sure didn’t come from nowhere, but she’s never shoved a knife in to the hilt, never heard the last rattle of the ribcage of a dead man, lungs like popped balloons, never felt the very life drain from a human being and land on her shoulder.

Daisy Fitzroy had a whole lot of life.

She cuts off her hair and trashes her old dress for something more violent—which you _are not going to think about_ —and you’re retying her corset because she can’t do it herself when the ship docks in Paris. Elizabeth’s brown bob shoots up like she can smell it in the air, good coffee and bad accents, while you only smell her perfume, feel the lace of her dress. Whatever. No one expected Paris to be magic.

Except, she feels it. You can see it on her face as she packs your things, _your_ in the plural because one bag is lighter than two and it’s not like you’ll mix up your delicates, and you decide not to shoot your way to the admissions desk. You’re not going in unarmed, ain’t stupid enough for that, but you give customs the benefit of the doubt.

(she ends up opening a tear to _la Tour Eiffel_ , she hesitates, Daisy’s blood burns her hands, but she goes anyway and you follow, like always. turns out it was only a movement in space. no trouble.)

You step onto the Champ de Mars and gravitate toward the nearest slum, deserted bridge, shadowed alleyway, anything to cover your tracks, but she takes your hand and of course she pulls you forward as she _sprints_ toward the Eiffel Tower, ducking between couples and women with parasols and lone fucking artists, of course she does. Never mind you’re covered in days of grime and itch to have a wall at your back, gun drawn. Once she’s got you, she doesn’t let go, and she’s got you good.

The tower is amazing, sure, a modern feat of engineering ( _“It’s not held together by giant balloons then?” “You hush.”_ ), but no piece of metal compares to her sun-dappled cheeks, light peeking through the tower and painting her in swirls and sweet, sweet curves—and when she turns and smiles at you, life in her eyes for the first time since it left Daisy’s, well. You’re damned.

( _“Are you going to learn French?_ _I’ll teach you!_ _Écoutez et répétez—“ “I think I’ll do fine without it, thanks.”_ )

You stay in the cheapest hotel within walking distance of the tower, selling what you scavenged off Comstock’s airship at a different market each week. You hold a parasol over her head—it’s her first purchase in France and she’s delighted by everything about it—and let her drag you from Oscar Wilde’s grave, which she kisses, to Victor Hugo Avenue, which she cries at. You take her, or she takes you, to the cinema and you watch little moving pictures dance across the screen. You untie her corset each night and retie it each morning, a little routine you carry between hotel rooms and abandoned apartments; she sighs each time you do it, up or down, runs her hands through her thick hair that’s getting longer all the time and bares her neck to the dim sunlight, and to you, she bares herself to _you—_

It’s in the way she steps on the grass, right after dawn, lets dew squelch between her toes and dances her own waltz. It’s in the way she always carries a gun but can’t bring herself to slice butter, so you do it for her. It’s in the way she stops in the street, leans backwards, and laughs at she falls into your arms, as she knew she would. It’s in the way she doesn’t talk for hours and hours, just lies in her bed—or your bed, or nowadays you share—and curls into herself, becomes a smaller target. It’s in the way she never, _ever_ looks at you in fear, not when the shadow of Comstock’s name freezes her in place and you tentatively rub her shoulders, the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of her nape.

(“ _You’re never going back there.” “It exists. I have a duty to those people up there, stuck with him—“ “You have a duty to yourself. And I have a duty to you.”_ )

You sell everything off Comstock’s ship and then some to get this apartment. The only furniture is a table and two chairs, the bedroom consists of a mostly-clean mattress lying limp on the floor, the carpet’s beautifully ornate but too old not to be infested, the building is entirely empty, and it’s all yours. Yours and hers.

A year after you first saw the Eiffel Tower, you take her hand and lead her through the alleys and pits, dips and climbs, until you shove open the door with your shoulder and gently slip the blindfold from her eyes. She gasps like she did at the buildings, and the parasols, and the cinema, and the graveyard—with the same delight you’ve cherished and, well. Loved.

Later that night, after a bout of bird watching and detailed explanations as to how they fly, she sits on the bed—mattress—and waits for you to tug the knot you made that morning, which you do. She pulls her hair to the side and tilts her head, and you freeze until she grabs your hand and lays it on her hip. And then you know. When you kiss, under moonlit skies of Paris, feet safely planted on the ground, you wonder how you could be so lucky.

(“ _Good morning.” “Bonjour, you mean.” “Yeah, yeah, bien sûr, bonjour, I love you, same thing.”_ )

**Author's Note:**

> I've been talking everyone's ears off about Bioshock Infinite and I finished it yesterday and I needed something to do with my life, so. I watched a let's play first and I shipped Booker/Elizabeth immediately, and then the game pulled a Star Wars on me. But you know me. Incest is no deterrent.
> 
> This will probably have a follow-up where the idyll is broken by the truth, whoops, no regrets.


End file.
